By Karen Galatz
RENO, Nevada — Alas, the best-laid plans of mice, men, and holiday hostesses often go awry! This I recently learned.
We were scheduled to host eight Algerian exchange visitors for a “traditional” Thanksgiving meal. The group was in town for a few days as part of a multi-state tourism education program sponsored by the U.S. State Department.
I’m on the board of trustees of an international exchange organization and that was my “in” to hosting the group for T-Day dinner.
For my husband and me, this dinner offered a moment of redemption, a longed-for return to the Thanksgiving celebrations of old when the extended family clan gathered in gluttonous glory.
For more than a decade, those gatherings have been a thing of the past. Family members have died. Distance, divorce, and general discord also contributed to the demise of the once joyous annual gathering of the clan.
Even in our nuclear family, there was a seismic rupture to our holiday. Our adult children dislike the historical/political symbolism of Thanksgiving plus one is a zealous vegetarian.
So, we the exhausted, but nurturing parents focus on the meaning of family and gratitude and plan a menu built around Greek macaroni and cheese and other starch-centric delights. Yet secretly we yearn for turkey and my Catholic-reared husband dreams of sausage stuffing.
But this year, “for the sake of international harmony,” we jumped at the excuse — I mean, opportunity — to serve a traditional meal. Faster than you can say, jellied cranberry sauce, Jon and I jiggled with joy and said, “Yes, yes, yes! Of course, we’d be delighted to host eight strangers.”
So, eight plus family and our other friends. It promised to be a jolly gather — just like in the old days! Hooray!
Jon and I planned our turkey-centric menu, drooling like fowl-famished wolves the whole time. I polished the silver till my arthritic fingers ached. I pulled Grandma’s hand-embroidered tablecloth and napkin sets out of the linen closet. We dusted off the card table and chairs which had long ago been relegated to a corner of the garage.
All systems go!
Then, it started getting complicated.
T-day Minus 7: I got the bios of our guests. Only three spoke English! The rest did not. Hmmm. Ok. We’d manage.
T-Day Minus 5: I received an email asking if our turkey was halal. A halal turkey? Huh? I thought halal meant no pork and no alcohol, not even vanilla extract!
Wrong! Halal, like kosher, is about ritual slaying and prayers. So, my hunt for a halal turkey — in Reno, NV — began.
The negotiation to purchase a 17-pound halal turkey was arduous.
“So big! At this late date! Very difficult! Do you really need such a big bird? OK. I will try. Come tomorrow,” sighed the shopkeeper in a lovely, deep accented Indian, but also deeply weary voice.
I showed up at 11. The sign said the shop opened at 10. The door was locked. The interior dark. I waited for 16 minutes. A middle-aged woman arrived dressed in a sari. In an unhurried manner, she unlocked the door, turned on the lights, and turned the “closed” sign to “open.”
I waited a respectful 30 seconds and rushed in.
“Oh, you’re too early, she said with a wave of her arm, her multiple bangles gently jingling. “My husband doesn’t have your big turkey yet. Come back this afternoon, please.”
Explaining I couldn’t come back until the next day, “Fine, fine,” she interrupted. I asked, “What time?” She laughingly said, “Oh, not early. I never come in on time.”
The next day — at a suitably much later hour — I arrived. The husband lamented, “Oh, I had to go to five places to get this big halal bird for you.”
I told him I would give special thanks for his efforts at our holiday meal which satisfied him.
I asked how long I needed to defrost the turkey. His reply: “How would I know? I’m a vegetarian.”
As incense — and my eyes — burned, he polled his fellow Indian compatriots in the store for advice. No luck. Everybody was a vegetarian.
After promising to return for all my future halal shopping needs — goat, lamb, beef. I thought about what my long-gone and not-so-long-gone kosher kin would say. (Sorry, Grandma and Grandpa. You did teach me to be kind.)
T-day Minus 3: three Algerians were out. Travel plan hitches.
T-day Minus 1: Four of our dinner guests cancelled, felled by the flu.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Jon was busy. Thanksgiving meal is his one big cooking day of the year. Jon had been prepping for it like a footballer training for the Big Game or a presidential candidate for a national debate. He had evaluated turkey defrosting techniques, brining options, and finalized his stuffing options. He had his cranberry sauce ingredients ready. He was a man with a cooking plan and the plan was his.
Aside from actually putting food into the oven, he had most of his work done the night before.
I, the usual Queen of the Kitchen, play a supporting role to all this. All my cooking duties were set to begin the morning of T-Day. I was on tap to make brownies — with halal vanilla extract, carrot souffle, green beans with almonds, a salad, and an appetizer plate.
Then, the morning of the big day, disaster hit.
I woke up shivering, make that quaking. I was coughing and sneezing, sneezing and coughing. I ached everywhere and could barely stand.
We debated quarantining me in the bedroom and having Jon assume solo hosting duties. But what if I was contagious? What if Jon was germy? Would he spread my “whatever” bug to our visitors?
We canceled our dinner. The sponsors of our guests saw they were accommodated with a lovely dinner at a restaurant. They were, of course, gracious. Our other guests likewise fended for themselves.
Jon divvied out turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce and delivered it. We, meanwhile, were left with a lot of bird. I didn’t have any that night, but Jon said it was great.
The Algerians departed town before I was well enough to meet them.
There is no great lesson to end this story with, other than to repeat the Robert Burns line about the plans of mice and men often go awry. I can, however, offer a truly bad pun, one decidedly not worthy of entry in the Talmud or Midrash.
“The road to halal is paved with good intentions.”
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You can read more of Karen’s work at Muddling through Middle Age or contact her at karen@muddling.me.